Published by hhAuthor on 18 Aug 2014


After several years of frustrating dealings with publishers, even with representation by a literary  agent, I’ve decided, enough waiting. I’m going DIY and publish this novel myself. It’s time, time for Fiona Larochelle to enter the world. It’s been a long, brutal gestation but we’re finally entering the final phase. Several talented friends have been instrumental throughout the process; Victor Bonderoff conceived the incendiary cover artwork, Derek von Essen, the fabulous book design, Gabor Gasztonyi, a sublime author photo and Carol Cram, author of the Towers of Tuscany, has kindly guided me through the indie publishing jungle. Today, I need to reload the cover artwork and order a copy for proofing. Once proofed, we’ll go live and then the book can be ordered in e-book or print form. I’ll have copies to sell at the book launch party Thurs, Oct. 2 at Slickity Jim’s in Vancouver.

At this point in my life I’ve certainly gained enough experience and skills to do this. I started my own company, Howe Sound Publishing. Authors have to do most of their own promotion these days anyway. Why should some publisher get the major percentage, benefit from all my hard work? I’m excited! Deliverance at last. Here’s the back cover copy:

Fiona Larochelle flees a harrowing home life only to land in Vancouver’s violently blazing punk rock underground. Music provides a catalyst when she mines a talent for singing and songwriting to form an all-girl band, the Virgin Marries.

After the group breaks up, Fiona is stranded in the U.S. and forced to navigate a minefield of vice, drug abuse, jealous lovers and predatory record producers as she works to rebuild her dream. She discovers that although rage may have facilitated her quest in the beginning, it cannot deliver her. Amid the tumult of the LA Riots, Fiona bolts from her cocaine-fueled marriage to a modern-day Bluebeard. Throughout it all, a fierce, indomitable spirit prevails.

“Haley chronicles the punk scene with insight gleaned from the mosh pit, backstage and onstage fronting her band the Zellots. It was a grimy few years when poverty was a style and anyone with the guts to get onstage could be a star. Haley has written a coming-of-age-novel in which Holden Caulfield is a street-walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm.”-Les Wiseman, writer, editor, Vancouver Magazine, Bloodied But Unbowed

“Quick and nervy, this book vibrates with the intensity of the punk scene it describes.”- Janice Erlbaum, author of GirlBomb and Have You Found Her: A Memoir

“The Town Slut’s Daughter is a wild romp through the madness of youth, a pagan celebration of life and living. But be warned Heather Haley is no lady. She’ll kick the ball right in your face and it will hurt.”-Chris Walter, author of East Van and Chase the Dragon


Published by hhAuthor on 22 Jul 2014




I rarely enter writing contests but I like the bent of this one, the Tobacco Lit Writing Contest and I like Geist Magazine as well. My entry, from my book, Three Blocks West of Wonderland:


Quit cigarettes too late, just as he bumped

into the pleasures of paternity. Cigar rituals.

Crystal trapezoid ashtray ready on the desk

itchy sedge thin, trumped up gorgeous

delinquent daughter in mind. How did I spawn

such a barren, martini-swacked maladroit?

Off to fiesta every three months, flea circus of slackers.

fasionistas and slap jack suitors along for a free ride.


He’s precise, positions the Cohiba in a double blade

stainless steel guillotine cutter. Scrutinizes the Avedon

portrait, a study in bad attitude. All attitude, filter less

Camel protruding from punk sneer. Karsh of Ottawa

snatched it, snapped rage.


Dreading her return from Wagonga Inlet, he toasts

the tip above a flame, ensuring a good, even smoke.

Took them fishing. For yellow fin. Bream. He draws

rapidly, harshly, locking Bentley convertible keys

in the top drawer. Heading back early. Slow, due to a drop

in water temperature according to the pricey guide.


Determined to cut her off if she doesn’t clean up.

Damned ash tunnels. Should puff gently,

though everything is about to give; the straw house

slanted as a rhombus, his lungs, faded to black.

Could leave it all to charity. Tough love

too callous. Probably rushed–ruined–her too.


Published by hhAuthor on 13 May 2014

REFLECT…no glass necessary on a balmy spring day



Sparrow’s flight path.

Bonk. Poor thing.


Despite this map of a face

I get lost in a blink

Find no one in the mirror.


Hard off

Pulp fiction life

Diary Land of woe.


Rhythm partner left

Me sorry joy,

Entirely enervated.


His thugs remain, brand

My stunned bird routine

Hyperbole. Who to believe?


Published by hhAuthor on 05 May 2014

Bringing home our inner pseudo commandos

Yes, I have lived many places, known many people. All I can do is write, if I’m lucky, as I struggle to understand human behaviour. While still in mourning for the loss of one of the most loving and magnanimous individuals in my life, somewhat ironically, I am astonished at the capacity of others for spite, as if anger holds redemption. Well, if nothing else, I suppose it provides fuel, though far as I can tell, anger only propels one further and deeper down into a well of despair, paranoia and depression. I’ve resided in isolation. I know how it works, feel fortunate to have surfaced, partly due to the efforts of friends and family who never gave up on me.


Cave apartment.
Lonesome injustice collector,
Lame prospero
Maintains object relations
With others based on envy.
Revenge-romance writer.

Between mean street patrols
And bitch prowling, corrals
The unwanted, hated, feared bits
Of himself, to reassemble,
Form of an enemy
Deserving of merciless rage.

Welcome to the neighbourhood.


Published by hhAuthor on 22 Apr 2014



A towering presence in more ways than one, a true rara avis, I had the great privilege of knowing Dave Gregg since our punk rock heyday, when he presided over Fort Gore and played in Private School then DOA and the Real McKenzies. He became close to me and my family through my best friend Cathy after they hooked up. Cathy is my son’s godmother and Dave was like an uncle, an exceptionally jolly uncle and a wonderful role model with his indefatigable exuberance and generousity. Cathy’s an equally extraordinary individual and she and Dave complemented one another. They revelled in a symbiotic relationship, partners in business, life and love. The pair travelled extensively and we always looked forward to meeting up with them for a vacation or whenever they landed in Vancouver. I hold close fond, precious memories; celebrating my birthday on Molokai, kids indulged with kayaking and horseback riding, sleeping in tenatlows on the beach. During a momentous holiday gathering in Whistler, much to our delight and amazement, Dave and Cathy bestowed us all with commemorative white terry robes. One year it was cabins in Waimea Canyon on Kauai, grilling tuna steaks and mahi mahi for Christmas dinner on the Na Pali coast.  We shared many good times and bad jokes over countless meals together.

Three weeks after his departure I am only now beginning to navigate the void, assimilate the sorrow. The loss. He meant so much to us all. Yes, Dave was a consummate musician, a great showman, and a wild man who was as free as a man can be in this world. As bitingly observant and wickedly funny as he was, I never heard Dave diss anyone.  Truly benevolent, I’m certain the man didn’t have a malicious bone in his body, as they say.

Here is a poem that as I told Cathy, couldn’t bear to write in past tense. Dave will always loom tall in our home, hearts and minds.



Head of fur.

Unabashed depth charger


As a cascading river

Wilderness alive inside him

Night a badge

Over savannah heart.

Heroic trickster

Dutifully howls,

Coyote-like scatters stars

Unerringly sharing his light.


Published by hhAuthor on 16 Apr 2014

Cat fight at the Clash show…”The Town Slut’s Daughter” forthcoming novel excerpt

Does he do this she wondered? Conjure up last night, the things we did, feel an after-shudder? Waiting to see Emmett Hayes, was . . . agony! Fiona couldn’t eat. Think straight. Gawd I hate this! Half an hour late. Again. She diddled her guitar, scanned a book, traipsed back and forth to the fridge, swinging wildly between anger and anxiety. Why doesn’t he call? That dink! She could have gone with Rita and Shannon. She could have spent her hard earned cash on something besides a new silk bra and panties. That bastard. Then, still cursing, Fiona heard his obnoxious Porsche engine out front and relief coursed through her limbs. She barely resisted the urge to run to the car.

“Sorry I’m late,” he mouthed, the Clash’s “I Fought the Law” blasting from his Blaupaunkts. “Did you hear? The Clash came out and played soccer with us!”

“Yeah! Who won?”

“They did, of course. My shins are covered in bruises.”

Emmett yarded on the gears pinball wizard style. Soon they were pelted with fat raindrops. He pulled over immediately to put the top up. They cruised the block repeatedly in search of the safest parking spot for his precious steed of steel. At last they entered the fading art-deco grandeur of the Commodore Ballroom, Emmett waving tickets at the doorman, breezing by security like a diplomat. Christ. He must have been left under a cabbage by mistake. Emmett surveyed the room, refusing Fiona’s hand.

“Fuck! Look at all the poseurs.”

Fiona spied Dennis across the room, stomach tilting at the reproach in his face. A young woman in a booth flanking the stage sat sneering.

“Emmett, who’s that girl glaring at us?”

He ignored the question, wandered off, Fiona following.

The Clash had an excellent DJ spinning a killer mix of ska, punk, reggae and dub. Fiona waved to Shannon and friends. The place was jammed with every die-hard in the city, slam dancing on its famous ballroom floor, originally designed to make any clodhopper hoof it like Fred Astaire. The Commodore had character all right and it was the perfect size. Fiona hated arena shows. The Dishrags opened. It was inspiring to watch fellow females wailing on guitar. They finished with a blazing rendition of “London’s Burning”. Next up, Bo Diddley. Emmett said the Clash brought the old guy along as a way to pay homage to one of rock and roll’s originators. Fiona shrugged.

“I’m too young for nostalgia.”

Unfortunately, the Powder Blues were his pickup band, old fart-guitar god wannabes and though playing with a legend, forced everyone to sit through a long, boring wank session.

“Fuck this. I wanna see the Clash!” Fiona was not alone in her sentiments.

Shannon walked over and pulled her aside. “See that girl? That’s Electra. One of Emmett’s girlfriends. He told her he was bringing her tonight.”

“Electra! Sounds like an Italian scooter.”

“She’s weird. Really mad, says she’s gonna beat the crap out of you.”

Laughing, they walked over to Emmett. He lowered his drink, deigned to look at them, insisting he hadn’t invited anyone but Fiona. Clouds of tension were gathering on the dance floor as well, burly security guards manning the barriers. Finally, the Clash emerged, a tidal wave of bodies surging forward, the band opening with “I’m So Bored With the U.S.A.”, Emmett off the hook. For now.

Beer. You only rent it. Fiona ran to the bathroom between songs, in and out of a stall quickly. Electra appeared, strutted over and squinted up into Fiona’s face like a Pekinese.

“Hey bitch! Keep your paws off Emmett or I will kill you.”

Looking around, Fiona laughed. “Where’s the hidden camera? Hey, Eeeelectraaaa. I think you’d better stay away from Emmett.”

“Wanna fight about it?”

“Hah! I could squish you like a bug. Fuck off! This ain’t junior high, you know.”

What Electra lacked in size, she made up for in attitude, fueled by four-inch stilettos, garters, fishnets, black leather mini skirt, all of which had nothing to do with punk and everything to do with Emmett.

Electra spit at her. Missing her target—Fiona’s face—the gob splatted onto her clavicle. Fiona looked down. Nearly blind with fury, she handily hoisted Electra up by the lapels. Shannon barged in. Fiona slammed Electra into the wall, back of her head banging the paper towel dispenser. Electra yelped.

“You bitch. You fucking whore!”

Shannon grabbed Fiona by the arm. They walked out dogged by the undaunted Lilliputian. Fiona barreled over to Emmett.

“What were you thinking?”

“I told you! I didn’t ask her. She just assumed.”

Wee Electra was at the bar again, glowering.

“Get lost, you skanky broad!” Emmett hollered at her.

Snotty pose pierced like a balloon, Electra flumped away, people laughing in her wake.

“God Emmett you’re an asshole!”

“Hey, I brought you. What do you care?”

“I care because it’s the same way you treat me. Like shit!”

“Fuck this!” He walked away in a huff.

Fuck this all right! Fighting tears, determined to revel in this night to remember, Fiona formed two fists and shoved her way through the crowd, jabbing, elbowing, bashing. She glanced back. Emmett gone. Naturally. Though the faces on the floor were familiar, the horde formed one huge alien, reeking of stewed leather and body heat, Clash so loud they cloaked the clamor of thumping heart, roaring blood. Fiona was rammed. Hard. She heard the wind go out of her lungs, body boxed about as if by bulls. She slipped, nearly going down, floored by the vision of her fractured skull ground into the boards by dozens of tightly laced combat boots. I am too black in the heart to fall! She carved a line out of the crush to the foot of the stage, stared up at Simonon. He was perfect—angled cheekbones, mouth gaping open like a Lego-focused kid, long, lean muscles. An art student apparently, before hitching up with the Clash, couldn’t play a note till Mick Jones taught him. Like John Lennon. Must be a British thing, that link between art school and rock. So why did I let Trent talk me out of art school? Oh my God. Simonon! He’s looking right at me! Got a girlfriend, according to Shannon, some tart who writes for NME. Strummer strained against his Telly, snaking the mic stand with his body. Tossing his guitar onto his back, he leaned over the crowd, ranting, railing. Loose-kneed Mick Jones was running, leaping, boinging all over the stage, carving out notes with an axe, his golden Gibson Les Paul. Goofy booster Dennis vaulted onto the stage during “Career Opportunities”, ricocheting off amps and various Clash members, security goons giving Keystone Cops chase. Strummer even let Dennis commandeer the mic and bray out the chorus with him, Fiona feeling a twinge of envy.

Several encores later, Shannon and Rita caught up with her, the usual confusion about the party location ensuing. Fiona felt a tap on her shoulder, turned around to Emmett, eyes trained on the floor.

“Wanna go to the party?”

“Not with you.”

He threw his bead back, looked up at the ceiling. “Kee-rist! Get over it will you?”

“Where’s Eellectraaa?” Fiona couldn’t say it with a straight face. “Emmett and Electra. Electra and Emmett. Has a nice ring, don’t you think?”

“Look, are you coming or not?”

“Oh, alright.”

Rita couldn’t disguise her disdain.

Shannon watched as Emmett tried to open the car door. “You’re drunk,” she said.

“Hey, I’m the best drunk driver in the world. Just kidding! I’m not drunk.”

“I’ll be fine.” Fiona waved at Shannon and Rita. “I’ll see you at the party.”

Emmett handles his car the way he handles everybody she thought, knowing exactly when to switch gears, drop the hammer, brake. As in broken.

No stars. No moon. They stopped at a light, Fiona watching a man buy a bouquet of roses at a Chinese grocery. I wonder who they’re for? Lucky girl. Or guy.

“Hey, do you know where the word ‘anathema’ comes from?”

“No, but you’re gonna tell me, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t you interested?”

“No. But I am interested in history, theology, philosophy.”

“This is beyond theology. It’s goddess worship. God was a woman two thousand years ago.”


“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“I think you’ve been hanging out with that bull dyke drummer too much.”

“Hey! Rita’s my friend, you know.” Fiona turned to glare at him. “Anatha was the goddess the Canaanites worshipped, the fierce, bloodthirsty goddess of fertility. Of course Zeus banished her. Anathema’s the only sign she ever existed. Ever since, God has replaced the Goddess, and thousands of women have been accused of witchcraft, burned at the stake, etc.”

“According to who?”

“Whom. Forget it. You’ve never heard of them. All you read is porno magazines.”

“That’s not true!”

“Oh yeah. I forgot. Henry Miller. Misogynistic crap.”

Emmett clenched his fists round the steering wheel. “I read Nietzsche. Ellison. Phillip K. Dick. Kurt Vonnegut. William Burroughs.”

“Oh yeah. The junkie that murdered his wife in Mexico.”

“It was an accident.”

“Like their marriage? Playing William Tell with pistols. Brilliant.”

“You’re such a bitch.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

Emmett set his jaw.

Fiona sighed. “As far as I’m concerned any woman worth her salt has to be a bitch sometimes. What’s the corresponding male term for bitch anyway? Guess what? There isn’t one! The closest might be asshole, which is a perfectly acceptable thing for a man to be. It means he’s self-assured, determined. A man can bitch all he wants. A woman asserts an opinion and she’s an evil hag. Not a nice girl.”

He accelerated. “You have me confused with someone who gives a shit.”

Engine roaring, Emmett pulled out to pass a little green MG, Fiona’s head jerking back, hands flying to the dash. The MG sped up. “Now that’s an asshole,” muttered Emmett, overtaking the car.

“Yeah, Emmett. Why should you care? You’re in the driver’s seat.”

“And you’re not. That’s no accident.”

“You can’t stand that I have a brain! That I might wanna do more with my life than suck your cock.”

Emmett slammed on the brakes. “You think you’re gonna bust my balls!”

Crash-test-dummy flung forward, Fiona’s head met the windshield with a loud *THUD*. She saw stars. The moon. The sun.

“Talk about assholes!” A warm, sluggish rivulet of blood trickled toward her eye.

Emmett sat dumbfounded, mouth open, loose as a cornhole. Fiona heaved herself up and out of the Porsche.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she screamed, guts churning. “I’ll kill you!”

She delivered a mighty boot to the car door instead, turned and bolted, blundering along a row of cars, blindly seeking the sidewalk, cold air whirling around the base of her spine.

Emmett pulled up. “Get in.”

“I don’t think so!”

“Come on, Fiona!” His voice strained containing fury. “I’m sorry. I’m not even gonna get out and look at the damage.”

“No! You’re not sorry. Any kindness from you is just a fluke, as random as all the cruelty and bullshit. We are not going anywhere!”

Lips curdling, Emmett shouted, “Fine!” gunned it and sped off.

Boy, I really know how to pick ‘em. Where the fuck am I? Broadway and Main. Mt Pleasant. Yeah, right. Shit! Fiona couldn’t remember the address of the party. She wiped her eyes, slinging tears to the rain. Who can I call? Stumbling along Main St, Fiona trained her eyes on the North Shore Mountains, deep blue even at night. Nothing open. Fucking hick town! She spied a head full of pink foam curlers in a picture window, in an apartment above a shoe store, wondering what it must be like to live above a shoe store. A woman on a couch. Maybe some guy stood her up. Fiona sighed. If only. She saw lights on in a restaurant across the street. Yes! A Ukrainian restaurant. Hah! She peeked in to see the staff sitting at a table. Face smeared with blood and mascara, Fiona entered. She hated to ask.

“May I use your phone please?”

A hulking, meaty fellow and the cook, a large seasoned woman, frowned. His mother? She reminded Fiona of Grandma Koretchuck. They must think I’m crazy. I must look crazy.

“We’re closed.”

“It’s local.”

The cook shot Junior a No through narrowed eyes. They argued in Ukrainian. He grunted, rose and led Fiona to a red phone on the bar.

“Thank you!”

They sat in their white uniforms staring as she dialed home. Yeah, better watch out. I might steal something or run you through with a butcher knife. No answer. Everybody’s at the party! Having fun. With the Clash! She considered calling Rory. Forget it. She goes to bed with the chickens. God, this place stinks. Trying to make it look fancy but what’s fancy about peasant food? Fiona recalled Grandma Koretchuk, always miffed that her daughter-in-law, the French Mick Jeanette, cooked better cabbage rolls than she did. Of course, her mother’s were weird. They weren’t bland, greasy little green turds stuffed with sticky rice. Jeanette improvised, using an entire cabbage leaf for a single roll, roasting them under a pork rind with tomato sauce. Yum. God, I’m starving!

“What do you put in your perogies?”

The old woman stared blankly. Fiona felt like saying, take your precious perogies and your precious red phone and stuff ‘em up your big bohunk ass, lady. Bohunk. Jeanette loved calling her father a “bohunk.” And he called her “frog” or “pea souper.” What a pair! Nice family. No wonder I’m so fucked up.

She walked out and down the street, passing a derelict dance studio, a deli with checkerboard tiles beneath a shiny, paper machè bull’s head, snout painted on. Oh well, it’s closed too. She stopped at a crosswalk. What a fucked up neighborhood. No one around. What am I gonna do? Fiona found a one-dollar bill in the pocket of her jeans and a diner open. Relieved, she sat at the counter and tried to figure out her next move, ordered coffee. A pockmarked, mocha skinned man with a black eye sat fondling a young woman. Dying for a cigarette, Fiona moved over into his smoke. The man grinned and offered her one, flashing rings on nearly every finger.

“What’s your name young lady?”

“Fiona.” Shit. I should have lied.

“Hello. Perry Kashkouli.” Perry was Persian, neglected to introduce his girlfriend, who was gone anyhow, swaying, nodding off, lit cigarette in one hand, pretending to read the menu.

“So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“Are you serious?” Fiona realized he was as serious as the audaciously wide lapels and gold medallions gracing his furry chest. “How’d you get the shiner?”

Perry brightened. “Why, defending the honor of a damsel in distress.”

“That one?” Fiona pointed to the girl about to fall off her stool.

“Oh, she’s just taking a break. She’s a good girl. So what’s the lovely maiden doing out all by herself?”

“Oh, just taking a stroll.” Fiona leaned over an ashtray and wrung the rain out of her hair. The matronly waitress came over and topped her up. “Where’s Victoria Ave from here?” asked Fiona.

“East. About 20 blocks.”

“Can I walk it?”

“I don’t know.” The waitress sighed and set the coffee pot down. “Can you?”

“Hey. We’re leaving,” said Perry, rising, smiling. “We can drop you.”

“Ah, no thanks. I’m fine.”

“No, really. It’s no trouble at all. I insist.”

“Leave her alone, Perry,” said the waitress sternly.

He smiled and bowed, handing Fiona a business card. Shangri-La Escorts. The waitress snatched his bill off the counter and motioned him to the till.

“Call me anytime,” said Perry. “I’m always hiring.” He gathered up his mohair coat, the girl.

“Here,” said the waitress, grabbing a handful of change out of the tip jar. “Go over there across the street, catch a 25 to Kingsway, then transfer to the 20 Victoria.”

Fiona read her nametag. “Thanks Joyce!”

“I’ve got a daughter your age. At home, where she belongs.”

Fiona paced for twenty minutes, happy not to be in a car with that pimp and his junkie whore. And thank God for weary old waitresses. She was relieved finding everyone out when she finally arrived at the house, cold and black as a cave. Icing her bump, Fiona huddled in a blanket in front of the TV wondering why she took shit from anyone anymore.

Published by hhAuthor on 06 Mar 2014




The sea never ends.

Ask a trawler.

Every unexplored trench

Propels her to dive

Into urban ruination.

Blonde brick facade

Fails to deter local rapture consultant

Friendly neighborhood ecstatic man

Ecstatic with belief.


Brother Earl pronounces

Each defeat of the heart

Each leave taking

Must ignite a torch song

For Jesus.

Any definition containing the word “God”

Is proof of God.


She protests, demurely.

He persists, naturally.

There is no convincing the devout

You don’t need convincing.

The right(eous) crave victory

More than more than fish and loaves

She his undeserved indulgence.


Piqued, he spends days

Mane taming, grip maintained,

Malignifying every utterance

From of her reluctant mouth

Discourse so acute

She threw up her hand. A signal. Stop.

Let’s restart. Imagine peace.


Expert at diminution

He named her Heathen. Sub-human.

Steeply, speedily Ignorant. Condemned.

Though the pious never cease flaming

Both remain standing. Hopeful.


Published by hhAuthor on 26 Feb 2014




March mad in February
Ma’s temper heats the window.
A flutter of juncos alight
Plying the bare limbed willow
Like a lyre
Fawn, dove, hare
Sheltered in cedar shade
Frightened still.

Bonded in blarney
She’d weaned me
On clever jive
My conception a farce
Life a fiction.
Let the need to know go
She repeated as if Buddha-wise.

Her demise should illuminate
Every secret, every corner
Every cowering tot
Lit by the pop and flash,
Truth, its triumph at last, though
Revelation offers no resolution.
We are all stories in the end.


Published by hhAuthor on 17 Feb 2014



Not my circus, not my monkeys.-Polish proverb


Born wrong, he got me right
Celebrates my fanny
Charms, trailer windows, black mind
For comedy. Gutterized beau
Replete with affection disorder
Grog blossoms, cauliflower ear
For doggerel. Broken noise.

Bloviating Master of Ceremonies.
Glitterized stallions. Elastic pratfalls.
Nothing distracts from my To-Do List:
Test trapeze. Reform winter law.
Conduct gravity. Reorient.
Polish tinware. Flush away

Chimp guano. Marvel
At the mess we’ve made, beatify
Our radical slaphappy love
Bless big top bounty
The largesse of my longing.
Remember what matters.


Published by hhAuthor on 04 Feb 2014




Oh but to sleep

One night so deeply

I need never sleep again.

Time enough

To unearth a solution


Pilot a pilgrimage

Sing purely

Convey exquisitely

Weather any cold spell

Play my lament andante.


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